the roof stayed on

wind’s getting up again

he mutters

all over the telly it is
trees down
power out
everybody panic
like it’s something new
you’d think it never blew before

he kneels, with a gentle sigh

these young ‘uns are soft
act like electricity’s their right
and this new-fangled internet-whatsit
moaning when they can’t update
their face-block thingummy

he runs his hand along the cold wet stone
shaking his head

they’ve forgotten
what really matters
haven’t they?

he carefully takes a flower from his shopping bag
arranges it neatly

remember how we used to sit
with just that small candle
flickering in the draught
we’d talk long into the night
or if the wind was calm
and candle-light steady
we’d read together, pressed in close
and all that mattered
was we had eachother
and the roof stayed on

ah …
those were the days

he pulls himself to his feet
with difficulty

stands, wet knees and all

goodbye my love
’til next time

he slowly leaves the grave yard
and limps slowly home

to his empty house
with the roof still on

birthday thoughts


the day arrives
and I feel
it’s just a day
no fanfare
no miraculous changes
no nothing
and I don’t feel special
at all

selfish wishes

on my birthday
I’m like a child
wanting this to be
my day
wanting to be the centre
of attention
wanting others
to make me feel
but this is
just selfish wishes
all tangled up
in hormones
and only I
have the power
to let myself
feel special
on the inside

not thinking

if I don’t actually
about my birthday
it’s fine
things are good
it’s only when
that I feel a lack
of that indefinable


as day goes on
I recover my balance
that to some
I am special
all of the time
not just this one day
and tonight I have time
with my love
just us two
and that is a wonder
to me


more day
until I change
emerge from the chrysalis
of my thirties
and bloom with butterfly wings
with maturity and wisdom
as my watchwords
flapping my wings
flying into that new life
as life begins

is it the other way

more day
until I change
crawl wearily out of bed
all bent and creaking
a white-haired crone
wrinkled and old
dried up and dusty
who nobody sees anymore
over the hill, past it
just freewheeling to the end

or maybe
just maybe
it will be a day
like any other
except it’ll be
a day to feel special
a day to celebrate being alive
a day to be thankful
for all that I have

and maybe
just maybe
I’ll enjoy it

and on the third day …

time is falling
from the sky
and I’m twisting, arching
flinging myself
at odd angles
trying to avoid the downpour
but the years
will soak me through
one is born
one dies
one fights the inevitable
yet in the end
comes acceptance
lying down in the
feathers of mist
drenched in age
and as dawn comes
I will stand up again
with a creak and a groan
proudly wearing the
cloak of antiquity
and embracing
the passing
of youth